


Seasons of Rivendell: Vignettes from the Retirement of Bilbo Baggins Esq.

by Anna_Wing



Series: The Road Goes Ever On [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:59:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1618514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Wing/pseuds/Anna_Wing





	Seasons of Rivendell: Vignettes from the Retirement of Bilbo Baggins Esq.

_Summer_

It was a sunny summer afternoon and Bilbo was looking for somewhere to have his afternoon nap. His fellow inhabitants had all apparently had the thought ahead of him, though, and every suitable spot in the gardens of Rivendell seemed to be occupied by somnolent Elves. At last he wandered up the ferny path to the orchards and settled down with a sigh of satisfaction in the soft grass under an old apple tree. Cicadas and crickets buzzed and whined; the air was still and heavy with the strong, winy scent of windfalls and the green scent of leaves and grass. 

Bilbo lay back with his hands under his head, and looked up through the leaves at the unclouded blue of the sky. It was a beautiful day; he had had an excellent lunch and could look forward to an equally excellent tea, dinner, supper and bedtime snack; the translations from the Elvish were going well (he had reached a particularly dramatic and exciting part of the adventures of that unfortunate idiot Turin Turambar); Elrond had said that young Aragorn would be visiting soon; and Lindir had promised a new song for that evening. Bilbo realised, half dozing, that he had absolutely nothing more to ask from life. It was a very pleasant thought.

After a while he realised that someone was in the tree above him. He or she was reading. Pages rustled from time to time, a quiet sound, but to Hobbit ears quite distinct from the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The breeze strengthened, bringing welcome coolness, and through the shifting leaves he saw the Lady Arwen, comfortably disposed on a broad branch.

"Tell me, Bilbo," she said after a while, "Have you much acquaintance with Men?"

"No, my lady, except for some of the Breemen and a few Dalefolk and a few of the Dunedain." He squinted upwards at the book in her hand, trying to read the title. 

"'History and Customs of the Uttermost East'," Arwen said. "A collection of letters from a...correspondent of my father's, over most of the last two Ages."

Bilbo sat up, interested. "An elf, my lady, from the far eastern lands?"

"Not exactly an elf," she answered. "Something ...someone similar to a wizard, though not very much so."

A certain note of warning in her voice told Bilbo not to pursue this fascinating tidbit.

"In any case," the Lady said distantly, "this is dead lore; the lands and cities of which she speaks are long lost and forgotten. Men and their deeds are ephemeral as butterflies; even the fairest fades in a day." 

. . . . .

_Autumn_

Rain dripped down the window-pane and the stove in the corner gave off a comfortable warmth. It was late afternoon in Rivendell, waning fast towards evening; teatime was well past, and dinner was approaching. The lamplight shone golden on a neat desk and a floor littered with books and carefully stacked manuscripts. He might almost have been back in the Shire, cosily settled in his familiar hole.

Bilbo's pen scratched its way steadily across the page. Tired for the time being of his "Translations From The Elvish", he was amusing himself with Elrond's collection of Númenorean documents, mostly copied from material either rescued or written by Elendil and his followers. They were worth the effort. The tales of glory, treachery, honour and horror fairly burned off the perfectly preserved pages. In their ecstatic intensity and black despair, their stories of wild romance and wilder adventure, they could match the most lurid tales of the First Age. 

It had, surprisingly, taken him longer to acquaint himself fully with ancient Adunaic than it had to master the Elvish tongues. The thoughts of the Númenoreans often seemed as strange to the Hobbit as those of the Eldar (though he was wise enough to know that in this he deceived himself). So many Númenorean ideas simply would not align themselves with a Hobbit's thinking. The fear of death, for instance, that they had so plainly felt. Death was the inevitable end of life, so what was the point of fearing it? But then the Númenoreans had thought that it might not be inevitable after all, if they put in a bit more effort. Bilbo supposed, cautiously, that that might have made a difference. 

Still, there were many other points upon which Halflings and the Kings of Men had thought as one. He had been extremely pleased to find the report (a nice botanical treatise and an original document too, from its worn and water-stained condition) on the discovery of pipeweed and its introduction into Middle-earth. 

. . . . .

_Beginning of Winter_

Winter came late to Rivendell but it came. As the years passed Bilbo slept less and less at night (he made up for it during the day; the Hall of Fire was the most delightful spot for a nap on chilly days) and he rose early. Exceptionally early, this morning, well before first breakfast, even. He did not quite know what had drawn him from his warm quilts out into the garden, across grass that shimmered with the first frost. Though as he went he made a mental note that it was time to unearth his winter boots from the wardrobe. Hair grew thin on an elderly Hobbit's feet too.

All was quiet, though lights in a few windows showed that people were already up and about. Bilbo took the path down to the river, content to let his feet go where they would. There was no light yet in the East, but Eärendil's star blazed above the black ramparts of the valley. The air was damp and sharp, scented with wet earth and fallen leaves and the faintest hint of woodsmoke (breakfast soon, he thought absently).

The rush and chuckle of the Bruinen grew stronger. Bilbo stopped at the last bend before he reached the river, listening with the sharp ears of his people to what there was to hear. Then he drew a deep breath and stepped around the corner and knew the answer to his presence there. 

In the last darkness before dawn, Arwen Undómiel danced to the water's music as her foremother Lúthien had danced, barefoot in the dew with the Star's light in her eyes and the wind in her unbound hair. 

. . . . .

_Winter_

Bilbo liked Arwen but seldom had the chance to speak to her. She was generally much occupied, for it fell to her to govern Rivendell, while Glorfindel kept the watch on its edge and Elrond took thought for the ever more dangerous tides of the world outside. 

So one winter evening, on a night of hard frost and chill moonlight and stars that twinkled sharply in a deep sky, Elrond's longest-standing (mortal) house-guest was rather surprised when the Lady invited him for a stroll after supper. Suitably bundled in furs and stout boots, he followed her tall back along a path that wound upwards amid the pines behind the House. He had somehow never seen it before, even though it began in the kitchen gardens, with which he was intimately familiar.

The path passed intermittently from harsh silver light to deep darkness and back again. Despite the lack of any lantern, Bilbo found it easy to keep his footing; the path itself seemed to guide his every step. At last, they came to a plain wooden door, set into a fold of rock. Puffing rather, Bilbo looked back the way they had come and saw the roofs of the House just visible below them through the tree-tops and the clouds of his own breath.

"Come," said the Lady. "It will be warmer inside, and you may rest there a little."

The door opened to the touch of her hand, and Bilbo hopped gratefully over the threshold. Inside was a small, hexagonal room lined with dressed stone. Lit lamps hanging from the ceiling warmed the air and illuminated the wooden benches along the walls. At the far side was a simple sword-stand, resting on a stone plinth. Lamps stood burning on either side and behind it hung a banner of dark blue silk bearing a silver Moon device. A sword sheathed in black lacquer rested on the stand, with a single white flower inlaid in its long hilt. Bilbo, recognising those devices, gawped unashamedly.

Arwen smiled at him. "Be seated, Master Bilbo. It has been a longer walk for you than for me, I fear. But I thought that this was something that might interest you." She helped him to a bench and went to stand before the sword, hands clasped behind her back.

Excitement made him rush into speech, without waiting to catch his breath. "My Lady, those devices...Thingol..."

"Yes. This is Queensgift, the sword Annarin, which Nimloth bore, wife of Dior, last queen of Doriath. From her it passed to Elwing, upon the fall of Doriath, and from Elwing to Elrond my father, though he has not borne it in long years. Celebrian my mother wielded it in her time, being herself of the line of Doriath, but when she took ship from the Havens she left it behind, having no further use for it."

It was still within, with the door closed against the winter night, and very quiet, except for the almost imperceptible sound of wicks burning down. Bilbo asked, "Is it yours now, my lady?"

Arwen lifted the sword from its stand and drew it with practiced ease. It rang softly as it left the sheath, a lean, grey, slightly curved blade, gleaming gently in the lamplight. She looked down at its length in her hands, and her calm beauty was for an instant terrible, an aspect of dread and majesty that Lúthien herself might have worn, facing the Wolf on the threshold of Angband. Bilbo held his breath, not quite unafraid, until the moment passed and her face eased into that of the Arwen he knew, tranquil and gentle.

"No." She sheathed the blade and returned it to its stand. Her deep voice was level. "Annarin is the sword of a Queen and that I am not and may never be. For in Middle-earth, death is the price of Queenship. And I am not yet sure that I will pay it."

. . . . .

_Spring_

After the years of study and preparation, he spent an entire winter on the final work, moving among his room, the Hall of Fire and the dining-room in a dream of ink and paper and words. When he put his pen down for the last time, he was surprised to see sunlight on the desk. He blew out the guttering candle and opened the window. The air was still cold, but it no longer had the bite of winter. The river (which never froze, no matter how cold the weather) ran with a subtly different note. He tidied the papers into the portfolio made ready for the purpose and went to look for breakfast and his host.

Bilbo waited, uncharacteristically nervous, for Elrond’s judgement of his manuscript. It was always potentially awkward when one was working with family material. He had vivid memories of the uproar over his mother's account of the Longo Baggins Incident. Cousin Lobelia had never forgiven him for showing the diary entries to his Took cousins (Cousin Adalgrim disliked Lobelia, and had lost no time spreading the story round the whole Tookland). 

He was deeply relieved when Elrond smiled at him with genuine appreciation. "This is very fine, Bilbo. There have been other renderings of this tale into Westron, but I have seen none better than this. Thank you, my friend. You have done me and my House great honour."

Bilbo glowed with pleasure and pride, that deepened when Elrond added, "Your new sub-title is also an interesting insight. I had not previously considered the tale in quite that light, but it is indeed perfectly accurate to describe the Lay of Leithian as "Travels With A Hound". 

. . . . .

_Autumn_

The leaves were turning yellow early in the gardens of Rivendell and the river sang a note that he had never heard in all his years there. 

It was surprising, really, how little he felt the need to pack. A few changes of clothes, his hairbrushes, his favourite pipe and a spare, his writing set and travelling-desk. A nice, new book, its pages blank and promising. Some new pocket-handkerchiefs (a farewell gift from the Sons of Elrond) and fresh pipeweed from the Dúnadan in a lovely pouch of black and silver. He already knew about Arwen’s gift, the greatest that he had ever received.

He had been wise, had given away all the important things in good time to the ones who needed to have them. The mithril coat, Sting, Bag End, his translations from the Elvish (and Adunaic). He had been both pleased and touched when Elrond had insisted on having copies of all his writings (even “Errantry”) made, for Rivendell and Gondor and the Shire. 

He hoped that soon he would no longer need to try to forget about the Ring. 

Master Elrond came to the door of Bilbo’s room himself, kind as always. “Are you ready, Bilbo?” 

Bilbo smiled at his friend and picked up his cloak and carpet-bag. “Yes. Yes, I am.” 

For the last time, they walked down the stairs together to where Galadriel and the others waited with the horses. It was time to go.

. . . . .


End file.
